After due consideration and an exceptional grooming session, I’ve decided to run for Governor. Maybe it’s been those extra good pieces of salmon Mama cooked for me or the gefilte fish balls – Who knows – I was won over or hung over or whatever. I’m excited to enter the race of a lifetime, and it may just be my 9th life – kidney disease and all…

But today I feel good. Mama encouraged me to post my picture with those of the cabinet I’d like to have, if I win, of course.

Just to show you how culturally & biodiverse I am, I am proud to announce Amber, a female lab mix, for Lt. Governor, and Chico, a male chihuahua mix for Attorney General. While Chico chose a casual pose for his photo, he assures me he is “not soft on crime”. Amber is a natural choice for Lt. Gov., for she greets everyone – human, canine, or feline – with a friendly smile and tailwag. And we all get along – kind of rare these days.

So, thank you in advance for your vote of confidence, on behalf of yours truly, Minnie, Amber, and Chico. What a great team we will be! I remain your humble and grateful servant,

From L to R & D: Minnie, Amber, Chico

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      Mama came home all excited from her gym class with Rick! She even gave me an extra scoop of salmon with a tushy rub.

       “Minnie Pooh, my love. Rick thinks you should throw your kippah into the ring. What do you think, ketzeleh? Minnie for Governor, yay!”

What do I think? Mama’s impulsive like a human baby sometimes. You never know when she’ll grab at someone else’s bubble gum, only to have it POP in her face & hands. What a mess!

On the other hand (paw), I do have a certain wisdom and acceptance of life on life’s terms that could help this meshuggene state. When I’m hungry and touch one of my paws or both to Mama’s shoulder, depending on how long she ignores me, I remember what my Great Grand-Uncle Bill taught me: “Please admit when stuck.” PAWS!

When you’re hungry, angry, lonely, tired – and who isn’t? – raise your paw and ask for help from the Big Cat Mama in the Sky. I ask Mama for help all the time. When she doesn’t listen, I turn to my BCMS. It’s so much better to ask for help when you’re stuck, don’t you think?

Back to the Governor thing. What a farcockte mess! I have peace of mind, heart, kitty – no fremde tzores here at home. Why would I want to give that up? Hm-mm. Got to think about Mama’s brainstorm. Time for a nap. It’s always good to sleep on it…

      

Yesterday, out of the blue, 2 weird things happened: 1. The Old Man decides to bring Binx inside to weigh him; 2. The top dog of CA decides to shut down the state. What’s their problem? Don’t they know it’s safer to let 4-legged & 2-legged animals do their business outside? I don’t get their logic. Besides, the Old Man is an engineer. He should know better. I’m an indoor cat, so I have a litter box, 3 actually, 1 more than Mama & the Old Man. Binx is an outdoor cat who can pee & poop anywhere he wants on the outside. Why bring him inside? I’m the top cat here. This is MY TURF for 17 years & 4 months. The NERVE of them!

Sure, I’m an older indoor cat with kidney disease. So what! I’m not dead yet. I’ve got choices, man. So, I showed them. Maybe what I did can help the top dog take better control of his turf. So, what did I do?

How simple it was: a piece of cake, a cupcake even, perfectly formed, 6 feet away from my litter box in the family room, where I do my best thinking, napping, hunting for lost kibble from Mama’s kibble toss.

Hey, Mama says we females must have a voice, so I voiced my opinion of Binx on my turf. And it was socially distanced from my litter box. So there. I dare the top dog of this corona shmona state to do any better. As Mama says more and more often these crazy days, “Minnie is my teacher. The world would be a better, cleaner place, if we lived more simply like Minnie Pooh…”

Can’t believe that Mama’s just beginning to get it: Sox, Binx, & Nero don’t all show up at the same time every morning, ’cause they each have a different schedule with different resources. We cats know instinctively not to depend on one mama only. Yeah, I know I’m stuck inside here for the rest of my days. At 17.25 years – Mama told me that’s = to 84 human years (I’m 2 years older than the Old Man) – I ain’t the hunter I used to be. I’ve got enough on my plate to contend with Mama & the Old Man – their idiosyncrasies plus those of Ted, the vet tech who comes to the house to give me fluids 3 times a week. Just don’t have the energy to hunt for extra homes & extra food on the outside, like Sox, Binx, Nero and just recently, Mittens, the new kitty from the neighbor family to our south. A daily kibble hunt on the inside is enough for me, thank you very much.

As a Yiddishe ketzel, I know Mama’s porch kitties are schnorrers, beggars who wander from house to house, block to block, to add new feeders to their morning, noon, & evening schedules. Hey, you think I’m making up stories here, because I use the term ” schnorrer”? It’s exactly the opposite from what you think. The professional beggar from the shtetl in the Old World got the idea from us cats who started it thousands of years ago, even before the Egyptians worshipped us as gods.

My point is, when you choose an outdoor career, like our kitties in the ‘hood, you accept the price of uncertainty for your freedom. So, my outdoor rivals – Don’t you know, they would take my place if they could – keep on trucking, make rounds every day, several times a day, to fill their bellies. Hey, if you didn’t have a Jewish American Princess life as I do, what would you do? Play “Ring around the Merry…Ashes, Ashes…we all fall down”?

Think about it, man. Corona Shmona, my adventures with Mama, the Old Man, Mama’s porch kitties, & my ongoing fluids, shmuids from kidney disease – it knocks me out. Geh schloffen like me. You might dream something big…

Yeah, yeah. So, I left a couple of tiny turds outside – WAY OUTSIDE – my main litter box in the family room. Mama doesn’t get it yet. How long does it take her to understand that my wet food must be FRESH. That means, Mama dearest, nothing older than 1 day. You dig? Who do you think you are? But no, that’s the wrong question. Who do you think I am?

Listen up, Mameleh! I am a discerning gourmet foodie feline. You brought me up to eat nothing but the best, kosher, kitty food, right? So, now that I’m a 17-year-old senior with God knows how many more lives or days to live – you feed me day-old drekh, as if I were porch kitties like Sox, Binx, Nero, or Mittens, the latest immigrant kitty from next door. Give the day-old fresh to them. They don’t know the difference. How would you like it, if you went to one of those places you go to with the Old Man, and they fed you old food that had maggots in it. How would you feel? I’m surprised at you, Mama. I know how much you hate ageism, especially against women your age. But you don’t see or smell the ageism you’re showing against me, your precious indoor kitty, the queen of queens, the tortie one, praised be me!

Ok, ok. I forgive you. Here, let me wiggle my ears, to show you I know how much you love me, our old code. So, let’s start over- fresh, right now, at 14:30. I said FRESH, Mama. In clean bowls. No more drekh. You got it, I’m sure.

Day 10, Continued

Mama stepped carefully over the turd I left outside the litter box and gave me that stern look she gives when she’s mad at me. But I simply looked up at her with that look of innocence that only I can give. That look says to anyone who sees me, first or 431st time: “You talking to me? Look at my clear green eyes. How could these peepers lie to you? I blinked and batted my eyelashes a few times for special effect, the one that says, “I love you, Mama dearest. How could I, who love you so much,  mess up the catio like this?” Hey, one of the outdoor cats, like Sox, Binx, Nero, or even the new neighbor kitty, Mitten the Kitten, could have come through the green door when Mama left it open, to violate my private sanctum. How dare THEY trespass my catio and lay a turd on it? Foreigners, that’s what they are! For a

split second I thought Mama really bought it, but she just laughed. “Sure, Minnie Pooh! Who you kidding, baby girl? You and you alone pooped that poop!” She went back inside for some paper towel to pick it up and toss it in the black barrel for trash. After she washed her hands a couple times she returned to the catio as if nothing had happened. Meanwhile, I took no chances. I hid under Mama’s deck chair to protect me from sun stroke while I took in the warmth of the rays. Besides, Mama always forgives my mess-ups, as I forgive hers. That’s what Mamas and kitties are for, don’t you know. Ah, sun baths under Mama’s chair, what a mechaiyah!

 

 

 

 

 

Sheez! Mama pulled a fast one on me. Three times this morning, on Shabbat yet, she tried to feed me a pill that would choke a horse. I spit it out, of course, every time. The nerve of her!

“I’ll show her!” I vowed. Through my kitty door under Mama’s desk I passed, determined to make a point – a poop, rather – not in the catio litter box but on the very first step – bullseye – out the bedroom door onto my catio. BTW, it was a spectacular turd: long, twisted like a corkscrew, slimy. “Let Mama fall on that!” I swelled with pride. After all, I am a first cousin to all lions, the proudest of the pride. I hopped onto Mama’s deck chair, daring her to push me off. Oh-oh. I hear her open the bedroom door to my catio right now.  Will she fall? Will she stop feeding me? Will she put me out on the front porch like Sox, Binx, and Nero who were dumped by their humans years ago? OMG: The “Committee” in my head told me things I didn’t want to hear. I was just about to re-enter the kitty door back to my chair when …

(To be continued, Day 10…)

Day 8 Nero Takes a Powder

For a while now I’ve watched a sleek black cat I originally thought was Brianna hop on the porch to be fed like Sox & Binx. Well, you read before how I saw that Brianna grew balls. I meant that in a physical sense.

When Nero who had been gone a long time suddenly showed up on the porch to eat and mostly sleep in Mama’s chair for here a week, there a week, I grew more and more curious. You see, he was not a fixed tom. Therefore, he would pee on the porch near the front door. I know Mama didn’t like this, ’cause I heard her call a fix-it place to have his balls cut off.

Word must have gone out in the neighborhood, ’cause don’t you know he disappeared for good, I thought, until today, about 6 weeks after corona shmona.

I say “shmona” after “corona” not to belittle its effect on people, animals, and the state of the world, but rather to stress that I am a Yiddishe ketzel. Also, the shmona means the number 8, the symbol for Infinity. Hey, I don’t know about you, but this 2020 plague happens to pop right here just before Pesach. To me who’s with Mama when she practices her Torah or haftarah portion, as if she wants me to correct her, I sense that corona shmona IS an act of God. Of course, no one in my species or human species knows what it’s supposed to teach us. But it certainly got everybody’s attention! I’ll end here with a prayer just like Mama.

“Creator of the universe, help all the big and little animals learn from this terrible plague. We all surrender to You. If we, God forbid, die in great numbers, at least give us an easy death and a speedy trip to the Rainbow Bridge in Heaven. Also, since we don’t gain weight when we’re there, could you feed me as much fresh salmon and avocado as often as I want? Thanks, God. I know I can always count on You.”